I know better
I know better.
I know better.
But I made a mistake.
I wish I had known better at the time.
But I didn’t.
And it cost me (1) a pair of prescription sunglasses, (2) a favorite sweatshirt, and (3) the case for my French horn.
Moreover, my mood has tanked.
Ugh.
=*=
Sunday morning, I drive the minivan downtown and snag a parking spot at 9th Avenue and Glisan Street. From there—wearing the sunglasses and sweatshirt, and carrying my French horn in its case—I walk the four long blocks and two short blocks to where the Rose City Pride Marching Band is assembling.
This is my third year marching.
Pride in Portland is epic. 180 groups parade past 40,000 people cheering along the one-mile-long parade route.
The celebration lasts hours.
=*=
Click to see a video of me and the band.
=*=
I take the horn out of the case, put my sunglasses in the pocket of the sweatshirt, and put the sweatshirt in the case.
Stephen, who co-conducts with Amanda, leads all of us in matching t-shirts and socks in stretches and breathing exercises.
Playing wind instruments, especially while marching, requires great lungs.
We tune and tune and play scales. Half notes up, full notes down. Long tones. Emphasis on sustained, resonant notes.
To be honest, I’m not a strong player. But Eric, Edi, Kim, Mary, and Gretchen—the other five horns—encourage and love me anyhow.
BTW, unless specified, when someone says horn, they mean French horn. Yes, trumpets, tubas, trombones, and saxes are horns—but they’re referred to as trumpets, tubas, trombones, and saxes.
=*=
Like I did last year, I leave my case (with my sweatshirt and sunglasses) behind the volunteer check-in tent and hurry to line up in formation.
The 56 of us in the Rose City Pride Marching Band play the Star-Spangled Banner and Lift Every Voice.
Dykes on Bikes (the perennial first troupe loudly roll down Davis Street toward Naito Parkway.
The parade has started.
I’m excited.
It is so much fun to be in a marching band.
=*=
I should have put a luggage tag on my case.
Or walked it back to my car.
Or like last year, I should have doubled back to retrieve my possessions after our troupe got to the end.
I didn’t think to do any of those things.
As a result, I lost my possessions, and I feel so stupid.
=*=
This year, immediately after playing, I found my family and friends and hung out with them.
That turned out to be a mistake, and it cost me.
=*=
I teach about mistakes. How, when you are making them, they don’t feel like mistakes—they feel like the right thing to do at the time.
After all, if you knew it was a mistake, you wouldn’t have done it.
=*=
When the my family has had enough parade, we walk to the volunteer check-in tent to pick up my horn case before we go to the car.
Only—as you know—the case isn’t there.
It’s gone.
Nowhere to be found.
I’m dysregulated. Angry. Mad. With no one to blame. Except me.
Jane says, “You know, I know of a rabbi who suggests being kind to yourself when you make a mistake.”
She’s right.
No need to continue to beat myself up.
I know better.
